


The Logistics of Fitting an Angel and a Demon in One Bed

by xanavici



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Sharing a Bed, crowley getting played like a gotdamn fiddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 17:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20492876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xanavici/pseuds/xanavici
Summary: A couple hours after Armageddon’t, a demon asks an angel if he wants to spend the night.  The angel accepts.





	The Logistics of Fitting an Angel and a Demon in One Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the bae, McTiddiezo, for beta reading this for me <3

Exactly 12 hours, 47 minutes, and 3 seconds after Armageddon’t, everything that wasn’t quite right in the world was made right again. The Tibeten tunnels under Tadfield disappeared, Atlantis sunk into the ocean again, a previously burned bookshop was unburned, and a previously exploded Bentley was unexploded. But in that 12 hours, 47 minutes, and 3 seconds between then and now, there was an angel that didn’t have a home to go back to and a demon who didn’t have a car to drive, so an offer was made, an offer was accepted, and said angel and demon rode a bus from the quaint village of Tadfield to the modern flat of one Anthony J. Crowley.

“I still can’t believe you’ve never been to my flat before,” Crowley says as he opens the door. “How many times have I gone to that shop of yours and you never once made it out here?”

“Well, I do believe you never invited me.”

Crowley did, in fact, invite Aziraphale to his flat before -many times in fact- just not in so many words. Though, by the way Aziraphale nervously stands in the entryway, then nervously walks through the place, Crowley thinks it’s probably a good idea that he hadn’t come out here before. This may be a mistake. This may require some wine.

But this was not a mistake. What Crowley mistook for nervousness, is actually barely contained excitement. The meticulously clean floors and almost bare walls remind Aziraphale of heaven, but without the sterilized atmosphere that always made him uncomfortable. It feels loved and lived in and so unbelievably Crowley that he can barely keep the calm smile on his face from growing into an uncontrollable grin.

While Crowley slinks away to find his wine, and possibly something stronger, Aziraphale continues his walk around the flat, running his fingers over the backs of the ornate yet comfortable looking furniture, marveling at the strange revolving door of a wall, and then positively cooing at the luscious green plants who stood perfectly still as they tried to determine if the friend of their master was going to yell at them as well.

“Oh, look at you beautiful things! I haven’t seen plants this green since The Garden; Crowley must be taking very good care of you,” Aziraphale murmurs to the plants as he pets their leaves. “What’s that? He yells at you? Well that’s just not nice of him at all.”

Crowley’s voice rings out from the other side of the flat. “Angel! I have this old red from France. I think you’ll enjoy the vintage.”

“Oh that sounds lovely!” Aziraphale turns back to the plants and whispers behind his hand, “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him about his behavior and see if I can’t make something change.”

“Zira where’d you go? Did you bug- oh-” Crowley rounds the corner with arms full of wine and finds Aziraphale still petting his plants. “Uh- there you are.”

“I didn’t know you kept plants! These are positively marvelous!” Aziraphale says, not even bothering to hide the admiration in his voice.

“Ah- yes- well- the  _ Epipremmum aureumes _ are -uh- doing fine but the  _ Schefflera arboricolas _ and the  _ Philodendron hederaceumes _ need to get their acts together unless they want to end up like their friend from earlier this week.”

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale walks over and snags a bottle. “You mustn’t be so hard on them.”

“But I am not nice!”

“I didn’t say you were,” Aziraphale says with that bastard smirk of his.

Crowley rolls his eyes and follows his angel back to the living room.

Their first bottles go down very quickly, especially considering the one they already shared while they were waiting for the postman. The second ones less so, but by then both of them have had enough to “let their wings out” so to speak.

“So what would you call this then?” Crowley asks as he holds up his copy of The Rolling Stones’  _ Exile on Main Street _ .

Aziraphale, with Crowley’s neck-tie-thing around his head, takes a long, hard look at it. And keeps looking. And keeps looking.

“Angel-”

“Dream pop.”

“What? That’s not a real thing!”

“Yes it is!”

“No it isn’t!” Crowley tosses it down and picks up his copy of The Kinks’  _ Misfits _ . “What about this one?”

Aziraphale purses his lips and side eyes Crowley who just shakes the case and waits for an answer.

“Go-go.”

Crowley groans and throws the CD behind him as he collapses onto the couch. “You’re messing with me. You have to be.”

“What? Is it not go-go?”

“No!” Crowley goes to take a sip of his wine and is surprised to find it empty. He sets it down on his coffee table a little harder than intended and a silence settles in the room.

To most species on Earth, a silence is just that, a silence. But humans, ever the creative ones, quickly decided that there are many types of silences. There are peaceful silences, uncomfortable silences, loud silences, quiet silences, longing silences, energetic silences, awkward silences, and -according to the not very well known philosopher Leonard Hudson- orange silences. 

Like the rest of the angels and demons, when Aziraphale and Crowley first heard that humans had differentiated these silences, they had thought the humans had gone mad and had no idea what the differences between these subcategories of silences were. As time went on they learned what those differences were and got better at telling them apart with varying success. Crowley, indisputably, is better at differentiating between the types of silences, something he loves to hold over Aziraphale’s head, but right now, in this moment, he hasn’t the foggiest idea what type of silence this is.

There’s been more of these silences in the past couple years leading up to Adam’s 11th birthday, especially so in the last week. With every instance that’s passed, Crowley has felt the need to say something and break it. But there arises the problem of what Crowley  _ wants _ to say is vastly different from what he  _ should _ say. And to further that problem, every time Crowley looks at Aziraphale, what he  _ wants _ to say, threatens to slither out of his mind and through his mouth.

Thankfully, Aziraphale talks before Crowley can. “Did today really happen?”

“You mean was the apocalypse stopped by an eleven year old that altered reality so that he was no longer the son of Satan, were three of the horsemen defeated by his peppy, optimistic friends, and did we question the Great Plan and both make enemies of both heaven and hell?”

“Well…” Aziraphale shifts in his seat, “Yes…”

“Then yea, that really happened.” Crowley tips off his glass again with the last of what’s in the bottle.

“Oh, thought so.” Aziraphale takes a sip, and keeps drinking, and keeps drinking, and finishes his drink. “Do- do you think our plan for tomorrow will work?”

Crowley exhales, long and steady. “Honestly, Angel, I don’t know.” He knocks back the rest of his drink. “But what I do know is that I need a nap either way.” Crowley miracles his glass back into the cupboard, sparkling clean, and heads for his bedroom. “Apartment’s yours, Angel, feel free to use the TV or the kitchen or whatever. Just don’t talk to the plants in my study, they’re getting their punishment right now.”

Crowley makes it halfway to his door before Aziraphale stops him. “How do you do it?”

“What?”

“Sleep. Enjoy Sleeping.”

Crowley walks back to the living room and stares at Aziraphale. “Easy, find a flat surface, close your eyes and just… I don’t know- go to sleep.”

Aziraphale snorts out a laugh. “It can’t be that easy.”

Crowley looks at him harder. “Aziraphale, in the six thousand years we’ve been on this planet, have you never once, tried to sleep?”

“What? No! I’ve tried it a couple times over the centuries but every time it was uncomfortable or boring.”

Crowley shakes his head and turns around again. “Well, you must be doing it wrong.”

“Wrong?” Footsteps follow Crowley and quickly catch up to him. “How can I be doing it wrong? You said it yourself, it’s easy!” Aziraphale huffs out when he catches up to him.

“I don’t know, Angel! But you’re doing it wrong.”

Aziraphale stops himself in front of Crowley and traps him in the doorway. “Then show me!”

“What?”

“Show me how to sleep, if it’s so easy.”

Crowley knows that tone of voice. It’s the one Aziraphale uses to taunt him and get him to do a miracle he really doesn’t want to do but has to now to keep his reputation up. And Crowley hates it because it works every time.

“Fine,” he grits out as he passed by Aziraphale, nose to nose. “Ya right bastard,” he adds under his breath. 

Crowley turns on the lamp next to his bed, miracles on his silk pajamas, and looks at Aziraphale. He won’t let the angel get the last word if he has anything to say about it. 

“Since you insist that you can’t be doing it wrong, show me how you think it’s done,” he says with a sweeping arm over his bed.

Aziraphale straightens, looks down his nose slightly, and walks over to the other side of the bed. He pauses for a moment, then lies down on top of the covers without changing out of his waistcoat or jacket or even taking his shoes off.

“What the heaven are you doing?”

“Exactly what you said to do! Finding a flat surface and trying to close my eyes!”

“No- you-” Crowley sighs so long it must have started when unicorns still walked the earth. “Take your shoes off and find something like this-” he gestures to his pajamas “-to wear. You’re not going to be comfortable or relaxed like that.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and takes his shoes off. With a flourish of his hand and a soft chime of a bell, he’s suddenly wearing his own set of silk pajamas in a soft cream color.

“Now this time, try climbing under the covers,” Crowley says with a sweep of his hands.

Aziraphale purses his lips like he wants to say something, but ultimately decides not to. Instead he does what Crowley says and slides under the covers to sit up against the headboard.

“Better?”

“Now I know you’re fucking with me because you were just lying down earlier!”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale says in that stupid taunting tone of his again.

“I- you- ah- bu-” Crowley blusters and stammers. “I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”

Crowley throws back the covers and climbs in next to Aziraphale. Grumbling under his breath he makes Aziraphale scoot down then starts arranging his limbs into something that should be comfortable.

While Crowely is good at telling silences apart, he is not very good at forethought. Many of his nefarious temptations and plans have come back to inconvenience him and now he gets to add another one to the list. He realises his mistake about 10 seconds after he makes it, after he’s already sprawled on top of Aziraphale. Gangly limbs freeze in place and as he continues to stare straight ahead at where he has Aziraphale’s wrist in his hand he can feel Aziraphale’s soft, steady breathing against his collarbone.

Crowley evaluates his options. The easiest one would be to spontaneously discorperate himself but that has the downsides of making a large mess, sending him straight into the proverbial lion’s den, and most likely never getting to see Aziraphale again. The next easiest would be to miracle himself away to anywhere but here but then he wouldn’t get to sleep in his own apartment in what could very well be his last night on earth. He could always turn into a snake and curl up with his plants in their temperature controlled room but then he would still have to face Aziraphale first thing in the morning.

Staying right where he is never crosses Crowley’s mind, at least not until a gentle hand slides along the small of his back and comes to rest there. The touch is light but feels like a thousand pounds pushing him down to relax against Aziraphale. If Crowley could put more than two thoughts together he would suspect that the bastard angel planned this to trip him up and taunt him, but all he can actually think about right now is how warm Aziraphale is, and how nice it would be to fall asleep next to that.

Morbid curiosity gets the best of him though, and he hesitantly looks up at Aziraphale. His angel just looks down with a soft, blissful, genuine smile. Crowley’s breath is stolen away. He looks away and shifts to rest more comfortably and Aziraphale’s arms tighten possessively for just a second before relaxing again.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley nods, then clears his throat and forces his voice to cooperate. “ _ Ngk _ \- Yea, this is.”

Six thousand years. Six thousand years of doling out temptations while secretly harboring his own. Six thousand years of longing and craving and languishing and dreaming of fantasies just like this. Who knew it would only take the end of the world to make them come true.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, breaking the silence. “Tomorrow  _ will _ go according to plan, right?”

Crowley reflexively tightens his own grip around Aziraphale and has to force himself to relax. “I hope it does.”

“I hope it does too.” Aziraphale snaps his fingers and the lights go out. A moment after that he starts tracing circles into Crowley’s back.

All the ways tomorrow could go wrong run through Crowley’s head but their slowly driven out by the rhythmic pattern of Aziraphale’s caresses. Tomorrow could be their last day on earth, so he better enjoy tonight.

Crowley adjusts once more, nuzzles his face into Aziraphale’s collarbone, and enjoys the best sleep he’s had in six thousand years.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at: cryptidhanzoshimada  
Find me on twitter @xanavici


End file.
